


A Worthy Opponent

by HolmesFan



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: +4 to all Cha rolls?, F/M, Gratuitous Banter, Praise Kink, Shameless Smut, Suave!James AU, what if Jimothy was a Charisma based character?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-09-18 17:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16999401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesFan/pseuds/HolmesFan
Summary: Elizabeth Swann is eighteen when she leaves England to join her father in Port Royal. She's ready for a change of pace from the boring society she's grown accustomed to. But upon arrival, she meets her father's friend Captain James Norrington, and it becomes clear she's in for more excitement than she anticipated. Fortunately, Elizabeth is ever so fond of a challenge.**Edit: Now with a bonus fourth chapter!**





	1. A Shot Across the Bow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the gauntlet is thrown.

The year is 1726, and Elizabeth Swann, freshly eighteen and primed for adventure, has nearly arrived at her long-idealized destination of Port Royal, Jamaica. She is not alone, of course, accompanied by two lady's maids, three manservants, and a retinue of strapping marines sent by her father. They had been a gift, she understands, from the Governor’s good friend and the commanding officer stationed in the colony port. They haven’t been particularly useful, the greatest threat on the crossing having been the ever-present boredom, but Elizabeth had managed, during the course of the voyage, to persuade them into almost daily games of cards.

After a month or so, they’d stopped playing for keeps. She nearly always won, and it seemed unfair to continue to part them from their hard earned wages. No matter how sweet the victory was.

The youngest of her entourage, and closest to her in age, an exceedingly pretty, bright-eyed soldier named Roger Toombs, is standing a polite distance away from her at the starboard bow as they both watch the silhouette of the town swim into vision on the horizon. He is eagerly chronicling all his favorite things about his home, and she listens in the way she does when most men jabber on about topics she has little interest in, which is to say, not at all. But she at least makes an effort to appear invested as she lets her mind wander.

When her father had left for Jamaica, Elizabeth, only twelve and desperate to stay with him, had begged to come along. This, she was told, was an impossibility. The West Indies were still wildly untamed, swarming with every manner of dangerous privateer. To say nothing of the French and Spanish presence. This hadn’t worried her, of course; Elizabeth was ever so charmed by the idea of meeting a pirate in her youth. But, for the first time in her life, her father had stood his ground against her. She would remain in England with her late mother’s family and begin her studies to become a fine lady.

He came to visit as often as he could, and she missed him too terribly in the time they were apart to punish him when he was actually there. This was especially true after she figured out her good behavior triggered his guilt even more than her temper. Then he was all the more likely to spoil her when he came.

But now, it is her turn to make the trip to see him, the pirate threat since having been all but neutralized. And Elizabeth intends for this to be a permanent visit. The familiar society of Hertfordshire has grown dull over the years, and she longs for the comparative excitement the colonies surely have to offer.

Now that she is of a supremely marriageable age, interactions with the men of her station have become dreadfully predictable. They simper and swagger and sniff after her dowry like hounds on a hunt. But Elizabeth is more cunning than any fox, with far more ambition to boot. No, if she is to be ensnared by any huntsman, he will first have to prove his worth. Empty platitudes dripping from hollow smiles do not impress her. She longs to find someone who is interested in her beyond her lovely face and proud lineage. She desires an equal partner, someone to match her in wit and tenacity. Someone who is not easily conquered by her practiced social graces.

What Elizabeth really, truly wants...is a challenge.

\---

The reunion with her father is a tearful one, all silk ruffles and affection as he embraces her on the docks in a rare show of disregard for public embarrassment. She is then taken up to The King’s House, a handsome structure perched on a green hill overlooking the harbor. She is to have the finest of the spare rooms and her own separate drawing room, if she should wish to entertain guests.

Her father’s animated tour leaves her feeling overwhelmed in the best of ways, though the clinging humidity of the late afternoon has drained much of her visible enthusiasm. She notes archly that throughout the demonstration and a subsequent supper comprised of all her favorite dishes, his friend, a Captain Norrington, is mentioned no less than a half dozen times. Elizabeth fights off the urge to roll her eyes at the obvious promotion, and, instead, convinces him to join her in the parlor so that she may show off her prowess at the pianoforte.

He indulges her merrily, because of course he does. And before bed, they share a nightcap of brandy by a rather superfluous fire in his study.

‘I’m so very happy to have you here, Elizabeth,’ he murmurs thickly, and she smiles to chase away the tears forming in his eyes.

‘As am I.’

\---

Days later, the honorable Mr. and Mrs. Dunham hold a ball commemorating Elizabeth’s arrival. It is transparently an attempt to curry favor with the Governor, for the Dunhams have two unmarried daughters who cannot possibly see her as anything other than a threat, but Elizabeth appreciates the gesture nonetheless. A party in her honor! And one she doesn’t have to host! It promises to be most diverting.

She dons her fanciest gown, a style all the rage back on the continent, and sweeps into the ballroom on her father’s arm, resplendent in gold and cream. Not long after, she is whisked away to meet a veritable parade of Port Royal’s finest. The evening is a blur of incessant pleasantries and unfamiliar smiling faces.

The pervading cloying scent of mingling perfumes, mixed with the oppressive late August heat, doesn’t seem to discourage the others in the slightest, and Elizabeth is constantly surrounded by curious revelers vying for her attention. And, while flattering at first, it does not take long for her to grow irritable, to say nothing of clammy. Beads of moisture have gathered on her hairline, sliding between her shoulder blades and breasts in rivulets.

But, more than the heat, Elizabeth is vexed that Port Royal just seems to be more of the same. Every man that asks her to dance falls all over himself to dazzle, and then can barely hold a decent conversation, if they let her get a word in edgewise. As the night wears on, this becomes more and more disappointing, and, to make it more bearable, Elizabeth gets progressively more inebriated.

She sends her latest dance partner for a fourth glass of punch, and takes the opportunity to escape through the open doors into the garden. Outside, there is at least a breeze, though it is distressingly warm and offers little in the way of relief. Elizabeth follows the impeccably trimmed hedgerow into a moonlit clearing some distance from the house and collapses against a decorative carved pillar with a gasping sigh.

‘It’s so bloody hot,’ she grouses, fanning herself vehemently, eyes squeezed shut in misery.

‘Yes. It’s like that a lot.’

Elizabeth’s eyes flick back open, head swinging to the side to find the owner of the smooth, deep voice that had interrupted her self-pity. He is seated on a stone bench tucked further in the alcove, an ankle crossed over his knee as he watches her in the semi-darkness. Even in the dim light, she can see the flash of his brilliantly green eyes.

‘Forgive me,’ he apologizes, surreptitiously placing the hat that had been sitting next to him atop his head. ‘I hadn’t intended to startle you. But you seem to have stumbled into my hiding spot.’

Starlight casts shadows along the planes of his face, accentuating the high cheekbones and strong jawline. Elizabeth’s stomach does a rather inconsiderate flip-flop.

‘ _Your_ hiding spot?’ She quips, comfortably slipping into wry banter. ‘I didn’t see your name posted.’

The man appears amused by this statement, a brief smile tugging at the corners of his lips. ‘Well, I was here first.’

His reaction piques her interest. It is uncommon for a man not to be cowed by her sarcasm. ‘And, may I ask what you are hiding _from?_ ’

Again, the ghost of a smile. ‘Oh, the usual. The heat, the perfume, the expectations and posturing and backbiting. Makes for a rather sweltering atmosphere, don’t you agree?’

She does, but opts not to say so, raising an elegant brow and tilting her head coyly. ‘You don’t enjoy parties overmuch, I take it.’

‘I didn’t say that. I quite enjoy them. As long as the company is agreeable.’

‘Ah. And you don’t find this particular assembly to meet your standards?’

Now, the smile lingers, glittering in his eyes as he peers up at her from beneath the brim of his hat. He rises, and Elizabeth swallows unconsciously at how much taller he is than her.

‘I will say that it has taken a recent turn for the better.’

She is pleased by the cheek of his response. Then she takes in his uniform for the first time, perfectly creased and with ornamentation indicating the status of captain.

‘You’re an officer.’

He smirks, close enough now she could reach out and take hold of his coat lapels if she was so inclined. ‘Expertly observed.’ 

‘And you’re teasing me!’ The gall! She’s delighted even as she pretends he’s overstepped.

‘My lady. We have yet to be introduced. Only a most impertinent rake would tease a lovely young woman he has just met.’

 _But flattery is still on the table,_ she thinks puckishly before declaring, ‘Well, if you see one, do be sure to point him out to me.’ His lips part but a reply isn’t forthcoming, so she snaps her fan closed and turns on her heel, skirts swishing. ‘I’ve a fondness for impertinent rakes.’

And with that, Elizabeth heads back toward the ballroom, hoping the mystery guest will find her later in the night. Maybe the event won’t be such a dull affair after all.

\---

Weatherby Swann finally catches up with his daughter not long after her return from the gardens. He’s keen to introduce her to his friend, the oft referenced James Norrington. It’s not that Elizabeth isn’t glad her father found someone to give him companionship these long years, for she very much is. But after all that time hearing his many praises sung via letters, she is certain he cannot possibly hold up. Renown pirate hunter, or no.

However, as she is led from the epicenter of the revelry, it becomes clear the man in question and she have already met. Not twenty minutes ago. In the moonlight.

Captain Norrington’s eyes dance as he bows over her hand, ‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last, Miss Swann.’

The way he says it...so full of warmth, almost sultry. Elizabeth beats back the blush that is creeping up her neck and threatening to spill out onto her cheeks.

‘Father’s told me so much about you, sir. Why, I feel as though we’ve known each other some time now.’

‘How odd,’ he counters gamely. ‘I could swear to the same sentiment myself.’

The Governor beams as he makes generous comments about the decor and guests, but Elizabeth hardly pays any heed. She’s too busy feigning casual disinterest in the Captain. 

Yet when he asks her to dance, she agrees.

\---

‘Did you know who I was?’

‘I had an idea.’

Elizabeth scoffs, trying not to be distracted by the peasant weight of his large hand on her waist or the expanse of his broad shoulders. ‘Why did you not just tell me so?’ 

‘You didn’t ask.’

A fair point. But she can’t leave it at that, she’s having too much fun, is too exhilarated to have found someone willing to play her game. She elects to probe a bit.

‘I must admit, you’re not much like I had imagined. While father spoke of you in his letters often, there was never any description of you physically.’

‘And what did you imagine when you pictured me physically?’ The way he lingers over the last word sends a shiver skating down her spine.

‘That is an awfully presumptuous question, Captain Norrington,’ she chides, unable to banish the mirth lacing her tone. He merely smiles in reply, and she shrugs as she divulges, ‘Shorter. Older. Pock marks. A gut. Maybe a limp.’

‘Oh dear,’ he chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners in a disarming way. ‘May I ask what your father _did_ say to have you envision such a creature?’

‘I’ve met his friends before,’ she confides as they spin gracefully around the other couples. ‘Usually they’re political or wealthy landowners. You’re very different from all of them, though.’

‘If they met your previous description, then I shall consider that a blessing.’

Intrigued, Elizabeth needles further. ‘I assume my father mentioned his only daughter. How did you picture _me?_ ’

‘It’s not quite a fair comparison given there’s a portrait of you hanging in The King’s House’s parlor.’

‘True, but I was rather young in that painting.’

He quirks a dark brow, the pad of his thumb drifting gently across the back of her hand. ‘There are still similarities. For instance, the spark of mischief in your eye remains precisely the same.’

Elizabeth is so stunned by this bold assertion, she nearly misses a step. And worse, the Captain _notices._ As if to unbalance her further, he murmurs perilously close, ‘It speaks to the painter’s skill that he was able to capture it so perfectly.’

His lips are so near, she imagines she can feel them graze the shell of her ear. And, even though she is no stranger to the warmth that is pooling in her belly, she’s still unsettled by how quickly he’s managed to gain the upper hand.

She’ll be damned if she lets him keep it.

\---

Later, after two more dances and as many servings of punch, the pair sits in conspiratorial congress against the far wall, as James, for that is what she decides she will call him in her own mind, makes droll commentary about the other attendees. He is plainly not partial to Port Royal society, even if he is deft at navigating it. She listens in unconcealed delight as he points out the next unsuspecting victim of his scathing observations.

‘And that, is Lady Ellis. She has six small dogs and almost as many dead lovers.’

Elizabeth hums around the rim of her glass. ‘What a fun, close-marrying crowd.’

At first, James’ eyes widen in surprise, but as her lips curl into a grin, he actually laughs. Not a chuckle or a smirk, like she’s seen before, but, honest to God, open mouth, teeth baring laughter. The sound shakes something loose inside her, and in that moment, Elizabeth decides...

She has to have him.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? An all new Norribeth fic from yours truly!? How utterly unexpected! Those of you who follow me on tumblr are likely no stranger to this fic premise, but I swear the damn thing would not leave me alone. So, here it is. The Suave!James AU in all its glory!
> 
> Please feel free to drop a comment or punch the kudos button if you're enjoying it so far. I am ever so encouraged by your feedback, dear readers.
> 
> And take heart! The rating will be jumping with the next chapter update!~


	2. Into the Breach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which blows are parried.

The next time Elizabeth sees James, he’s been invited by her father to dine with them. She has had nearly a week to plan her method of attack, not unfamiliar with her repertoire of carefully cultivated charms, and elects to spend the time leading up to his arrival practicing archery in the garden, a leisurely diversion she’d picked up on her cousin’s country estate. After years of training, she’s developed no small amount of skill at it. But when she catches movement through the gap in the hedgerows out of the corner of her eye, Elizabeth purposefully misses the next shot.

‘You know, Captain,’ she admonishes blithely without turning her gaze toward him, ‘It’s poor manners to spy.’

‘I prefer to call it investigating. I heard you from the front walk.’

Now, she does face him. His expression is appreciative, but there is jocose defiance in his tone.

‘You wish to critique my choice of hobbies? Perhaps it is not ladylike enough to meet your high standards?’

‘On the contrary, Miss Swann,’ he advances, hands clasped behind his back. ‘Such an active pursuit becomes you.’

She demures under the compliment, but is privately pleased by it. Then she lines up another shot, misses again, and curses under her breath.

And, as if on cue, he offers, ‘May I?’

 _It’s too easy,_ she smirks inwardly.

Elizabeth makes to hand him the bow, her intention having been to goad him into a contest and then win, but, rather than take it from her, his warm, steady hand covers her own. Her heart beats thunderously behind her ribs as he enfolds her in his arms, guiding her draw arm up until she takes hold of the string once more.

‘Try to keep your elbow level,’ he rumbles into her ear, fingers threading her own on the grip, ‘and leave both eyes open when you fire.’

Elizabeth shudders even as she nods her understanding. Her breath is coming in shallow little puffs as she barely manages to swallow the sudden surge of want threatening to clog her throat. He is _exceedingly_ well-made, isn’t he?

She is saved by Estrella calling for her from the side door. Dinner is ready. Her father is waiting.

It is very lucky the maid had not seen fit to fetch her in person.

\---

Throughout the first course, Elizabeth is trying her best to rally. What she had meant to be a trap, a chance to show off, had been turned on her in an instant. She hazards glances at the Captain as he makes polite conversation with her father, who doesn’t seem to notice that she’s been uncharacteristically quiet. 

As the main course is served, and her father’s attention is briefly averted, James, seated across from her, actually winks. The audacity! Not to be outdone, Elizabeth resolves to up the ante. He will _not_ beat her at her own game. She slips her foot free of her shoe and stretches out, caressing the length of his shin under the table. He gives no obvious indication of her impropriety, but she doesn’t miss the flare of his nostrils, how he pauses ever so slightly in his reply to whatever question her father has just asked him.

When the Governor next turns to summon a servant, burning green eyes slide toward her. Elizabeth stiffles a giggle by primly patting her lips with a napkin, and then arches a brow as if to ask, _Is that the best you can do?_

Her silk clad toes glide back upward, but this time, deliberate digits curl around her heel, effectively halting her teasing. She peers up at James through her lashes; he’s jumped right back into the previous discourse...as though he isn’t gently stroking the clocked ankle of her stocking beneath the table, beneath her father’s nose.

Another challenge met.

Elizabeth is beginning to believe she has, at long last, found a worthy opponent.

\---

By her explicit design, they encounter one another at many more functions after that, ranging from recitals to lawn parties to christenings. If she should be asked to entertain those assembled by playing the pianoforte, then he is there to turn the pages for her. If she should find her glass empty, then it is only moments before he will appear with a replacement. He sits across from her at card tables, helps her in and out of her wrap, should she wear one, and is always on hand to escort her up or down any staircase she meets. If there is dancing, he will stand for her. And if there is a garden path, he will take her for a turn.

None of this, in and of itself, would be considered indecent by even the most conservative of onlookers. But underneath the carefully crafted facade of civil exchange is an undercurrent of willful rebellion that makes even the most mundane afternoon tea invigorating: a tacit competition to see who can more thoroughly beguile the other without anyone else taking notice.

They are evenly matched, the Captain and she, each celebrating victories as often as the other. And Elizabeth, usually fiercely covetous of her free time, answers nearly every society invitation in the hopes James will attend as well.

He almost always does.

\---

Tonight’s game is denial.

It is the Randall’s annual harvest ball, and all the elite of Port Royal have turned out in their finest, flagrantly flaunting their wealth and status in a room full of peers doing exactly the same. Elizabeth dances with every gentleman who asks, accepts flute after flute of offered champagne. She sparkles and titters and generally makes a grand show of relishing the esteem being heaped upon her.

In truth, none of it is for them.

At first, James appears bemused by her exclusion of him, watching her caper about with sharp eyes, and she exults in the envious glint there. But it isn’t long before she observes him engaging in conversation with a group of navy clad officers gathered near the refreshments table, seemingly content ignore her as well.

That won’t do.

So, when her current dance is finished, Elizabeth pretends interest in the offered vittles, and makes sure to brush her hand over his as she squeezes by. This subtle encouragement does the trick, and for the remainder of the evening, they exchange artful glances, circling one another at a distance until she steals from the ballroom, retreating from the stifling crush of silk and brocade clad bodies

There is a mezzanine overlooking the ballroom, and from a previous visit, Elizabeth knows how to reach it. It is blessedly empty, and she drifts into the shadows to wait. Not three minutes later, James appears in the doorway. As she knew he would.

Before she has time to rub her triumph in his face, he strides across the floor, tosses his hat into a nearby chair, and his mouth comes crashing downward over hers. A soft noise of surprise escapes her, and he drinks it down like a man dying of thirst, taking the opportunity to slice open her lips with his tongue as one hand wraps around the back of her neck and the other settles on her hip, tugging her closer.

Elizabeth has been kissed before. Many times. But never like this. And, though it is unlike her to cede control to anyone, any resistance she might have once offered melts away. He tastes like gin and lime and delicious restraint. Her fingers fist in the lapels of his coat, and she holds on for dear life, head spinning, knees trembling when his mouth finally parts from hers and begins charting a course along her jaw, across her chin, down her neck.

‘You are divine,’ he hums against her flushed skin as she gasps, unable to catch her breath. ‘Celestially singular in your beauty.’

She would tell him that was a load of rubbish. If only she could remember how to speak.

\---

The memory of that night continues to repeat over and over in Elizabeth’s mind the entirety of the next month, making her giddy and tetchy in turns. James is gone to sea, a lamentable side-effect of his career choice, and so she must make do in his absence. The problem is, there isn’t much _to_ do. Not that holds her interest anyway. Without him, Port Royal is proving to be rather lackluster. 

Elizabeth does befriend a few of the young ladies her age, though the only one she has anything significant in common with is Rebecca Scott, a frisky, freckled ginger as full of playful deviance as she is of gossip. Together, they titter over romance novels, down several bottles of her father’s best sherry, and mercilessly critique every man within a twenty mile radius. And, more than that, Becca is ever so wicked, willing to discuss those things one never brings up in polite company.

When Elizabeth confides that she’s set her sights on James, Becca grins ear to ear, rolling over onto her stomach in the grass where they’ve been reclining. ‘Is that so? Well, you have your work cut out for you. Half the mothers in town are sharpening their talons for that one. Has he made a declaration of intent?’

Elizabeth’s fingers drift to her collarbone, the line of dusky purple marks there having only just faded. She’d had to wear a fichu for nearly a week. ‘Not in so many words.’

The ever-present humor in Becca’s eyes fades, making her almost unrecognizable as she sits up. ‘Do be cautious, dear Lizzie. Discretion is one thing. But secrecy? You don’t want to be a man’s secret.’

\---

Becca’s warning, however sincerely it may have been given, only serves to offend Elizabeth. As if she isn’t aware of what depravity men are capable of. As if she is fool enough to be taken in by some foppish casanova. What she and James have is different. It’s...unconventional, to be sure. And, it’s not as though there’s been any obvious overtures...but that’s the whole point! That’s the game!

Unfortunately, Elizabeth is now unable to shake the idea that there might be more than two players.

And then she sees him with another woman.

She has given the servants orders to tell her the minute _The Dauntless_ returns from her cruise, and when the news comes, has herself made ready in record time and rushes to Fort Charles, with an excuse of acting courier for her father. But as she makes her way to James’ office, she overhears feminine laughter from the courtyard below. Passing curiosity alone has her leaning over the railing to investigate...and there he is, sublime in his dress uniform, arm in arm with some other slip of a girl.

Elizabeth ducks down, not keen to be spotted spying, and watches as the girl giggles at something he’s said while he smiles affectionately down at her. The girl counters, and he laughs, that real, genuine laugh, and Elizabeth’s blood boils. When he stops and takes the girls’ hands in his own, Elizabeth spies the glitter of gold on her finger, and, ears straining, catches ‘-the happiest of men.’

Outraged, angry tears pricking behind her eyes, she flees in a flurry of humiliation and silk petticoats.

\---

Elizabeth spends the next fortnight in a most sullen mood. Not even her father’s attempts to spoil her can lift her spirits, and to make things worse, he continues to invite his friend, the Captain, up to The King’s House to visit. She has resolutely decided she will not face him, and begs off with every manner of malady, once even scaling the trellis outside her window and hiding in the carriage house until he departs.

It stings more than it should, this deception, and Elizabeth is determined not to let him know how much he’s affected her. Honestly, the shame is all his if he meant to keep her on the side. And for such a plain little thing. Why, there’s no accounting for taste at all.

But, as she brushes through her hair before bed, glowering at her reflection in the glass above her vanity, Elizabeth knows the true wound lies with her pride. She’d been so sure of her charms, so distracted by the scintillating sport she was making, she hadn’t stopped to consider…

No promises had been made. And they have been circumspect enough the Captain has the ability to deny the existence of anything ever having been between them.

\---

One Tuesday afternoon, as Elizabeth is lazing about, ignoring her half-finished needlepoint in favor of re-reading her favorite book for the fifth time while sitting sideways in her favorite chair, the door to her private drawing room quietly closes. She glances up, annoyed and ready to scold whatever servant has intruded when she _expressly_ ordered she was not to be disturbed. And there, standing just inside the threshold, hands clasped behind his back and looking rather annoyed himself, is James.

‘Tell me,’ he enunciates through a tight-lipped frown. ‘Have I done something to offend you, Miss Swann?’

Any _decent_ woman would take offense at his presumption, his arrival unannounced and unchaperoned. ‘I assure you, Captain,’ she states icily, not moving from her relaxed position even though her ankles are on full display. ‘In order for you to offend me, you would have to be in my thoughts. Which you are not.’

His eyes narrow shrewdly, before he seems to come to some sort of conclusion, and, with a sniff, begins slowly pacing the edge of the room. ‘Now, that is a shame. For you have most certainly been in mine.’

Elizabeth snaps her book closed and rights herself in the chair, glaring at him with all the lofty disdain of a regent on her throne. ‘Pretty words. How would your fiancée feel about them, I wonder?’

The Captain stops in his tracks, and for the first time since she’s met him, actually appears confused. ‘Fiancée?’

But Elizabeth doesn’t want to play anymore. She stands, busying herself with brushing invisible flotsam from her dress so as to not meet his searching gaze. ‘Don’t deny it. I saw you together at the fort.’

There is a beat of silence where he continues to appraise her with that fetchingly perplexed countenance, then it dissolves into comprehension, then to something like amusement. ‘At the fort, you say. And did the young lady have on a yellow sun bonnet?’

She did. But Elizabeth replies, ‘I can’t say that I noticed anything memorable about her at all.’

The gleam in his luminous green eyes has become so knowing, she can hardly bear it. ‘I see.’ He shrugs, the casual gesture so at odds with his intense gaze, it unnerves her.

‘Then, as I am _not_ in your thoughts, and you have _not_ been offended by my attentions to another, it will relieve you _not at all_ to hear that there is nothing between the young lady and I.’

‘There isn’t?’ 

‘No. I believe you saw me congratulating the soon to be Mrs. Theodore Groves. I’m to stand for her husband at the upcoming wedding.’

‘In truth,’ he continues, and it is only now that she realizes his measured steps have brought him within reach. ‘Ever since my return, I had been hoping for an audience that I might receive permission to pursue courtship.’

‘Of me?’ Her voice is pitifully hopeful, even to her own ears.

A smile tugs at the corners of his lips, lights his eyes, but doesn’t make a full appearance. ‘Yes.’ Then he shrugs again, takes a quarter turn away from her. ‘But, now that I know your _true_ feelings, I shall not insult you with further declarations of my regard. I can see myself out.’

He only gets as far as the door, fingers wrapped around the handle, before she flies forward and grabs hold of his coat sleeve. ‘Wait! James, please don’t go.’

He pivots back toward her, brows raised, expression prompting her to finish. Elizabeth takes a deep breath before apologizing. ‘Forgive me for being such a capricious fool. I should not have jumped to conclusions.’

‘I imagine you were helped along in making them,’ he jibes good-naturedly.

‘Even so. It was unworthy of me to lend such credence to hearsay.’

James smiles, and the severity of her relief nearly takes her off her feet. ‘Very well, Miss Swann. You are forgiven.’

Thank you, Captain,’ she returns, then smirks. ‘Now, what was this about further declarations of regard?’

\---

It was a serious moment, one Elizabeth worried might change the playful nature of their relationship. But, ultimately, these fears prove unfounded.

Her father grants his permission for courtship, and the game resumes.

Things are now less about what they can get away with in plain sight, and more about finding the time to sneak away, discovering hidden alcoves or barely trafficked rooms.

Though she has given James liberty to call her ‘Elizabeth,’ she is hard pressed to work up any disapproval when he does not. Not when he can transform ‘Miss Swann’ into something so suggestive. He breathes it into her ear before his lips close around her pulse point, sighs it against her skin as her fingertips inch under his wig to tangle in the thick, cropped hair beneath.

James exhibits a quickness with buttons and lacing that was no doubt bred in the Navy, though it is now used in more amorous pursuits: driving her to distraction as he shifts her clothing just enough to taste the hollow of her throat, the curve of her shoulders, the swell of her breasts.

In the back of the Fitzwarren’s impressive library, he navigates the voluminous folds of her skirts with cunning hands, rucking up the yards and yards of fabric as he pins her to the wall by way of his greedy mouth on hers. His digits find her slick center, circling, dipping in, leaving her dizzy and gasping for more, for _him._ She is desperate to know the feel of him inside her, tells him so, hoping the crude language will sway him, but as always, James only doubles down on his efforts, has her writhing and wanton as he fills her with his fingers and swallows down her moans of pleasure.

The sound of the door handle turning pierces the relative silence, and James claps a hand over her mouth to stifle her helpless noises. However, he doesn’t cease his ministrations, holding smoldering eye contact as whoever entered the room mills about on the other side of the shelves for a time. Just when she thinks she can take it no longer, the intruder leaves, and the door has hardly snicked shut before she is clamping down on his fingers, keening his name as James whispers against the slope of her neck. ‘There’s a good girl. Breathe. You are truly a goddess made flesh. See how I worship you.’

And he does. No matter where they are, no matter how illicit their liaison, James is always so full of praise, encouraging her, exalting her beauty, her tenacity, her spirit.

There is an occasion where she turns it back on him in her drawing room. The two are engaged in a bout of chess, the door slightly cracked for propriety’s sake, though her father has given them a telling amount of privacy. He takes one of her bishops, long digits closing around the intentionally sacrificed piece to remove it from the board, and she observes, ‘Such clever fingers, James. Truly an extension of your indomitable focus. I’ve never met a man more...supremely capable.’

He freezes, and Elizabeth could swear she sees him shudder despite the heat of the day. His eyes darken as he studies her from across the table. _In for a penny…_ She leans forward, chin braced in her hand, and practically purrs, ‘It makes me proud to call you mine.’

James blinks, and then slowly, deliberately reaches up and unpins his wig, gently setting it aside. When his gaze turns back to her, she has all of a second to relish the hunger there before he is upon her, bearing her down against the chaise with lips almost punishing in their fervency. She nearly cackles at the way his hips buck into hers as she croons her approval into his ear, biting her thumb suppress the urge.

But, even though she’s never seen him so undone, James still resists her hissed demands that he take her, instead going down on his knees and laving the very heat of her with his tongue until she shakes apart, back arched, fingers fisted in his hair.

It is not what she intended. But it will do.

For now.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! Isn't that just _something._ It appears our dear Elizabeth is as insatiable as they come. ;)
> 
> If you liked the turn this chapter took, slap that review button, and let me know! I absolutely _live_ for your feedback, and, as you already know (especially in the case of _this_ fic), I write for all of you as much as I do for myself.
> 
> A very Merry Christmas, my dear readers! I hope my gift finds you all happy and in good health!~


	3. Victory or Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an accord is reached.

At first, the change is subtle, so much so, Elizabeth does not even mark it until she has slipped out of her father’s office at the fort to watch James drilling marines in the courtyard one sunny afternoon. His back is ramrod straight, his uniform pristine, his every movement deliberate, confident. He barks orders, and his men obey, snapping into formation like the cogs of a well-oiled machine. They face away from her as James paces down the center of their perfect rows, breaking character ever so briefly to flash a smile up at her.

 _Mine,_ she thinks as he spins round to continue, and it stirs something deep in her breast rather than her core, leaving her breathless and buoyant. She likes the sudden lightheadedness so much, she thinks it again, just for good measure.

_Mine._

\---

Not long after, she returns home from tea with Becca to be informed by Estrella that James has been waiting for her in the drawing room. Panic floods her system when she pushes open the door and finds him thumbing through one of the well-worn swashbuckler serials she has, to date, been religiously careful about keeping hidden. Pirates, sword fights, treasure...the whole lot. A beloved, if guilty, diversion grown out of her childhood longing for freedom in the form of the sea. 

Elizabeth bites down on the cresting wave of excuses building on her tongue, feeling just as foolish for the impulse as she does for curbing it, and, as if he can hear the thrumming of her humiliation, James meets her startled gaze. Where she had expected admonition, she instead discovers a form of muted enchantment.

‘I wonder, Miss Swann, if you might be interested in a tour of _The Dauntless_ while she is in for repairs?’

She absolutely is, and, in addition to making good on his offer, James begins to generously recount tales of his exploits in the name of King and country, a concession, nay, a _privilege,_ Elizabeth is utterly famished for. He imparts every dangerous detail she requests with a circumspection that suggests it is somehow a deliciously scandalous thing to scour the pirate threat from the Caribbean. Perhaps in polite society, it is.

But even more glorious than his stories, is the way he is visibly touched by her delight. As though her hunger for a mere morsel of the adventures he’s had is somehow edifying. He allows her to investigate the charts he has kept of his previous voyages, volunteers to take her sailing, and even presents her with a silver astrolabe, spending the remainder of the evening teaching her how to use it. She’d be lying if she claimed the gift hadn’t stuck in her throat and misted her eyes.

James is the first person to not only fully accept this side of her, but to indulge it. And, all the while, he behaves as if her interest is a form of compliment. Not to be indebted, Elizabeth determines to find an equally meaningful gift to give him in return.

\---

Her patient observation is rewarded when she encounters him in town one morning, spying his now familiar silhouette through the front window of a bookshop. For a moment, she debates with herself over whether or not to join him and chooses the latter, instead noting the volume he spends some time considering before replacing on the shelf and waiting out of sight until he has left. Upon closer inspection, the tome is revealed to be a leatherbound collection of Shakespearean sonnets. Elizabeth hardly notices the terse mien of the clerk as she makes her purchase nor the clanging of the bell as she exits with her prize, too lost in a cloud of gleeful bemusement.

Who would have suspected James to be such a romantic?

The next time he comes to visit, instead of playing the pianoforte after supper, Elizabeth, with added encouragement from her father, convinces James to read aloud to them. When he warily asks what she has in mind, she plucks the book from her sewing basket, lips tight to fend off the grin trying to bubble out past her teeth. His reaction is everything she’d hoped for and more: his sharp eyes shining with unchecked feeling as he takes it from her. The smile that ghosts across his features is so gentle, it is excruciating.

Elizabeth resolves to be more vigilant in the future, for she is coming to crave the exquisite torture of his gratitude.

\---

She learns James prefers gin to whiskey, and whiskey to rum. He collects small, oddly shaped or colorful stones from the places he travels, displaying them in an orderly line on the highest shelf in his office so that, as tall as he is, only he can see them. He likes his teas floral and his coffee black, exhibits a habit of sucking on limes to ward off scurvy, even while ashore, and has a tendency to confuse Handel for Bach. He’s compulsively neat, keenly perceptive, and has a fondness for cats he only begrudgingly admits to when she catches him cooing down at an affectionate stray while he thought no one was looking.

And he sketches, has filled scads of books with his magnificent drawings, which range from intricate depictions of locations he’s been, to meticulous studies of local fauna. When Elizabeth expresses her captivation, she soon starts to stumble upon smaller versions of them tucked away for her to find...often of herself. They expose a fastidious attention to the planes of her profile she had not been aware he’d been watching close enough to warrant.

The discovery humbles her...in a way that evokes a yearning for more such discoveries.

She has never known anyone like James. Not insomuch that he is tremendously unique, although that is true. More to the effect that Elizabeth has never been known herself, never had anyone make such an effort to genuinely understand her. It makes her want to understand him in return, makes her thirst for the rare occasions he waxes nostalgic over his childhood, and she can goad him into a story. She has begun to live for the moments where he feels comfortable enough to shrug off the cloak of ‘Captain Norrington’ and become merely James. Dear, earnest James. With his thoughtful anecdotes and dry wit.

Elizabeth had long ago accepted that marriage is to be her lot in life. It had always been her sincerest wish to wring as much enjoyment from the world as she could before then, before she had to resign herself to babies and boredom. But now she thinks, perhaps with a man like James…

Perhaps the rest of her life could be an adventure.

\---

In the Spring, news officially circulates that James will be promoted to Commodore: surprising no one, Elizabeth least of all. The ceremony, which is to take place in late June, is sure to be an impressive affair, with all the formality and pomp the Admiralty can whip up. A noteworthy occasion...or as noteworthy as anything that happens in the backwater of the Caribbean truly is in the grand scheme of things.

All the who’s who of Port Royal, along with several visiting guests of stratified import, will be in attendance, and Elizabeth has determined she shall be the envy of all. It smacks of vanity, but the truth is, she wants to separate herself from the others in the best way she knows how: fashion and bearing. Thus, she sends to London for a custom _robe à l'anglaise_ from a renowned couturier she has never before commissioned herself, but that all her most fashionable friends back home have given sterling reviews. They each have one of his custom gowns, and now she shall as well. Halfway round the world, or no.

But when the veritable confection of a dress arrives a scant two days before it is to make its debut, Elizabeth is aghast to discover it is too small in the waist. There is no time to make any kind of effective alteration, nor have a replacement tailored in town, and the notion of wearing one of her old gowns is completely untenable!

Not one to be defeated on any field of battle, particularly one with an adversary of cream silk and gold brocade, after several hours of anguished upheaval, she elects to make it work out of sheer force of will: hardly eating anything at all and having the maids cinch her into her stays mercilessly tight. This does eventually yield results, but the effort is so monumental, Elizabeth considers wearing the cruel ensemble to bed the night before, if only save herself the strain come morning. But, as it is essentially an iron maiden, and bags under her eyes would subvert the whole point, which is to look ravishing, she ultimately opts out of the idea. 

It takes hours to get ready the next day, her cosmetics flawlessly painted on, her hair swept up into burnished ringlets atop her head and framing the elegant contours of her countenance. The dress is saved for last, and though her final reflection in the full length glass is terrifically stunning, the fact that she can hardly draw a breath does prompt her to consider the cost.

No. She is too stubborn to turn back now. She’s already come this far, and, damn, if she isn’t going to see it through. Thus resolved, Elizabeth quits her room with a swish of skirts and begins gingerly descending the staircase. Her appearance manages to render both her father and the pretty, young blacksmith’s apprentice making a delivery utterly speechless, and though she modestly demures, Elizabeth is greatly pleased.

The suffering will surely be worth it to see such an expression on James’ face.

\---

And suffer she does, for the morning turns unbearably humid as the sun blazes unhindered in the cloudless sky. Miserable, sweaty, and surrounded by equally miserable and sweaty society attendees, Elizabeth tartly muses that her difficulty speaking, for lack of breath, has, no doubt, made her even more of an asset to them. Women should be silent in public, seen but not heard. Unless prompted to converse by a man, of course. But she ignores the peevish voice in her head and instead devotes her energies to vehemently fanning herself and forcing a pleasant, if brittle, smile.

Once James finally appears, dazzling in naval blue, her smile transforms into something much more sincere. The brilliant gold accents of his new Commodore’s uniform catch the sunlight, gleaming almost as brightly as her pride in him. She watches the others watch him with everything from apathy to admiration, sanguine with the fact that, though they may think they have some form of claim on him, none of them truly know James. Not a one. Only she does: only she gets to glimpse the secret facets of person.

There is some swordplay (which excites her), and a fair bit of formal rigamarole (which does not), then the spectacle is over, and James is, naturally, waylaid to chat up some important people. (It’s not every day Admiral Bellamy makes the trip over from Nassau, after all.) Surrounded by the white-wigged rich and powerful, he appears completely at ease being their centerpiece. But Elizabeth has learned it is an act born of careful practice. Her James is merely adept at pretending. 

It does not take long for her to grow tired of waiting for her turn, sweltering as she is in the afternoon sun, and Elizabeth wanders toward the parapet so that she might catch some of the breeze coming off the sea. However, as she climbs the steps, a worrisome wave of vertigo dims her sight and weakens her knees. Her fingers fly out to brace upon the pillar and miss by nearly a foot. The resulting, split-second terror turns her blood to ice in her veins.

But rather than tumbling over the ledge to what would likely be a most grisly death, a steadying hand closes around her arm, snatching her from the brink.

‘I’ve been meaning to have them erect a balustrade for these events.’ There is humor in his tone, but when her stunned gaze flicks up to his, James’ brows knit. ‘...Elizabeth?’ Oh, he so very rarely calls her thus. ‘Are you well?’

‘I’m perfectly fine,’ she chokes out, swaying on her feet only just a little.

Strangely, this does not convince him. He grips her a bit tighter.

‘It’s simply the heat.’ She has to pause to sip in enough air to add, ‘...and the dizziness.’

Concern etches lines into his face, and James threads her arm through his. ‘Then, perhaps you should come away from the edge.’ She nods and allows herself to be led a few steps before he stops and furtively asks, ‘Shall I send for a carriage?’ 

_Damn this infernal torture device of a gown!_ ‘No! That is- it’s not- I’m not ill.’ Her agitation has made breathing even more laborious. She has no intention of letting her calamitous wardrobe malfunction ruin James’ big day. But he is surveying her with such protective regard, guilt seeps under her skin and renders her obstinacy, and embarrassment, for that matter, suddenly trifling.

‘It’s this dress,’ she leans in to confide, already flushed cheeks surely coloring all the more. ‘It’s so tight. The stays- I can’t breathe. It’s agony.’

‘Well, we cannot have you in agony.’ Mirth sparks in his eyes, and at first she thinks he will tease her, a reaction she would admittedly deserve, but instead he responds with equally hushed candor, ‘If I may offer my help in any way…’

‘Are you- hiring yourself out- as a lady’s maid?’

He laughs, quiet and genuine. ‘As it is an emergency, this is to be strictly _pro bono._ ’ He begins steering her around the amassed throng. ‘Besides, I’m afraid you could not afford my going rate.’

The two casually stroll away from the group, Elizabeth clinging stiffly to James’ arm as she realizes he’s taking her to his office. At first she worries they may be missed, but no one seems to note their retreat, and moreover, she’s too monstrously uncomfortable not to seize onto the hope of swift relief.

Once inside, James casts his hat into a chair, crosses to draw the drapes, and ignites his desk lamp as Elizabeth settles on closing the door. The markedly intimate change of setting is not lost on her, and, though James’ manner is all business, something familiar awakes within her loins, as it does any time they are alone.

He starts asking very specific questions about the offending gown. Is the problem with the garment itself or the stays? The stays. He shall have to take off the dress, then, and untie the skirts to get at the lacing to loosen it. How many pins are in the stomacher? His brows are drawn as he turns her toward the light, eyes charting the hems and folds of her clothing as if they were a map of enemy lines. Then he takes a knee and begins pulling the pins, collecting them between his teeth. Elizabeth’s heartbeat throbs in her fingers, which itch to take off his wig. A telltale moisture is slickening her thighs.

‘You seem to have- a great knowledge- of women’s fashion,’ she accuses in jest, breathless for two reasons now.

James smiles around the pins, and, without looking up, inquires, ‘Am I not allowed to have hobbies?’

‘Hobbies?’

‘Yes. I’ve taken up dressmaking on the side.’

Elizabeth finds she cannot resist a riposte, no matter how taxing the effort. ‘Supplementing your income, now?’ She smirks. ‘I didn’t realize- you were so hard up.’

Now he does meet her gaze, levity dancing in his eyes as he meaningfully plucks the last pin, and the garment’s stranglehold on her slackens ever so slightly. He stabs the pins into the arm of a nearby upholstered chair, and then rises to help her shrug out of the sleeves before draping the voluminous abomination over the back. Though she is still clad in several layers of underthings, she is, for all their... _amorous_ cavorting, more naked before him now than she has ever been.

Far from being self-conscious, Elizabeth is ravenous.

But James is still behaving as though she is some mystery that needs solving, deftly untying her petticoats and pannier, which slump round her calves in a heap of fabric as he loosens her stays with a few forceful jerks.

Elizabeth fills her lungs. And long, feather-light fingers flit up her back.

‘Shall I send for a less harrowing replacement?’ Is it her imagination, or has his voice dropped an octave?

‘That would hardly be discreet, would it?’ Warm exhaled puffs of air stir the fine hairs at the nape of her neck.

‘We could always claim you’ve spilled claret on yourself and can’t bear to be seen in public around so many lofty strangers.’

Disarmed, she laughs. ‘And, of course you have a plan! As always. It’s just one of the many reasons I love you.’

Silence. Even the clock on the mantle seems to have stopped ticking. Elizabeth’s eyes go wide, her dumbfounded horror wedged in her throat. _What have I done?_

‘What did you just say?’ Whispered. Winded. Like she’s delivered a blow to his gut.

The game! The competition! What happened? When did she- when did this thing between them-

Oh, _God!_ She _does_ love him! ‘I- I hadn’t meant-’ she stammers, reeling from the revelation.

‘What did you _say?_ ’ He repeats, urgency fraying his tone.

There’s nothing for it. She’s not wriggling out of this one. Time to go all in. Elizabeth turns her head, meeting his gaze over her shoulder, and finds a plea in his emerald eyes. The words tumble out of their own accord.

‘I love you, James.’

He visibly swallows before declaring, ‘Thank God.’

Then his lips descend in a searing kiss, so eager as he crushes her to him, their teeth click. There is a desperation in the way his mouth claims hers, some pent up emotion that makes her giddy with the implication. When he breaks contact to sample the column of her neck, she decides to say it again, for the longer his touch is igniting a fire in her flesh, the more it is true. ‘I love you.’

The wig is first to go, doffed without a shred of caution and lobbed some indeterminate direction before she shucks him out of his frock and moves on to the waistcoat, cursing as she fumbles with the buttons in her haste. He bats her fingers away to take over, and Elizabeth buries them in his hair instead, giving a tug at the roots that has him growling against her clavicle, bared teeth grazing her skin, sending arcs of lightning down her spine.

She steps out of her pile of skirts and kicks off her slippers, losing a few inches in the process. The change in perspective gives him pause, and, keen to carry on the momentum, Elizabeth comes clean: tells him how she felt watching him that day, how proud she is, how she wants him, _needs_ him. She makes a confessional of his office, murmuring her many sins and sacrileges, all while slowly slipping her chemise off her shoulders to pool on the floorboards.

Clad only in her stockings, Elizabeth goes on tiptoe to kiss him, intrepid hands roaming the forbidden planes of his body beneath his untucked shirt before clutching at the hem. ‘You have robbed me of all sense, all restraint. I dream of you, James. Of the life we could have together.’ Her words have staid him, and he stands at attention before her, listening with dark, hooded eyes. ‘There was a piece of me I hadn’t realized was missing until I met you. An emptiness inside me I didn’t know was there.’ 

‘Please, James. Fill me up?’

Usually, this is when he’d smirk and parry back at her, playfully dodge her attempts to sway him and instead have her panting into a cushion somewhere as he distracts her with fingers or tongue. But this time, his hands close over hers, and his ragged voice is inconceivably low when he asks, ‘So, then. Is it to be the desk or the table?’

Her grin is pure triumph. ‘The table, I should think. I quite like the idea of you fucking me over the charts strewn there.’

His lips twitch. His eyes shine. ‘As you say, my love.’

After a flurry of clashing tongues and discarded clothing that happens so very fast and yet not fast enough, Elizabeth is deposited on the tabletop, fingernails digging into whatever flesh they can reach as James fills her inch by glorious inch. ‘Incredible,’ she gasps, and his breath hitches. ‘You’re incredible, James.’

And he is. All lean muscle flexing beneath her grasping palms as he drives into her ever more vigorously, one hand kneading her breast while the other grips her hip hard enough to bruise. When he drops the latter to her thigh and hooks a knee over his elbow for a better angle, one that has her taking him even deeper, tears begin leaking out of the corners of her eyes.

‘James- oh, _James!_ Yes, _God,_ just like that. It’s so good, you’re _so good._ I love you- I love you- _Iloveyou-_ ’

She comes hard, back arching, a howl trapped in her throat as she clenches on his cock, and he follows with a hissed expletive and a guttural moan, only just managing to pull out in time to finish on her abdomen.

Ever the practical one, is her James.

He sags forward, bracing his fists on either side of her spread thighs, and takes a moment to catch his breath. Then he chuckles and shakes his head.

‘What is it?’ She asks, feeling sated and generous, her skin tacky with their sweat.

James’ gaze finds hers, bright and glittering and impossibly green. ‘I was planning to ask you to marry me today.’

‘What a coincidence,’ she croons, fingertips straying affectionately up the broad expanse of his back.

‘I was planning to say yes.’

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand that's a wrap! Thank you to everyone for joining me for this delightful little romp. I hope you enjoyed reading it even half as much as I did writing it. Let me know what you think! Comment here, or even pm me over on my tumblr ([link](http://norrington-hell.tumblr.com/))! Your feedback breathes new life into my poor author's soul. 
> 
> My next few projects are (if things go as planned) going to be oneshots playing around in the _Redemption's Promise_ universe, so I'll be back soon.
> 
> Keep a weather eye on horizon!~
> 
>  
> 
> A special thanks to: _Lilith_diLibri_ and _Wolveria_ for beta-reading/praise. To _Snowbryneich_ for the use of Admiral Bellamy.
> 
> And to Wheeler. For knowing and being known.  
> 


	4. Behind Enemy Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the game is changed.

I was lost to you from the very first.

I took the sight of you descending the stairs on your father’s arm like a blow to the gut, with all the swimming vision and ringing ears to match. You stole my breath, my words, my caution, _my heart,_ in one fell swoop, rendering me a man possessed of only his immortal soul. And even that I would have parted with if only you’d asked.

Instead, you asked for a game.

As though our meeting were fate-mandated, you unknowingly stumbled upon my hiding place in the garden. And hiding I had been, as much from you as from the ball itself. I had no inclination when the Governor spoke of his daughter with such transparent designs on a match the spell you would weave over me. What you would be able to do to me with your mere presence.

You were bewitching in the moonlight. Elegant. Witty. You made me laugh. And more than that, you made me _want_ to. If only to inspire that mischievous gleam in your eye I had long seen expertly depicted in the portrait your father has hanging in the front hall. I felt a young man again, eager for and terrified of your regard all at once. A dangerous enchantment, for one could easily destroy themself in pursuit of such a woman. If one weren’t careful.

\---

I have ever prided myself as a being of great restraint, have built a sturdy reputation upon a foundation of prudence and iron control. What little social graces I possess have simply been a means to that end. But you. You stole that too, whisked my inhibition away in a maelstrom of satin skirts and sensuously curved lips.

You swept in with all your coquettish charms, testing the boundaries, seeking retaliation- escalation, sparking something competitive within me that shames me even now. Your unmistakable attempts to unbalance me made me want to return the favor. And I did: a willing participant in your game, secretly scandalized by how much I craved your inevitable pushback.

We tracked one another across crowded concert halls and stained-glass dappled pews, always invited to the same events. You set the pace: an excruciating orbit that brought us closer by inches. Too much. And never enough.

And all the while I knew full well you could be playing me for a fool. A mere pastime for a beautiful, bored debutante. But when you awarded me with your intoxicating proximity, your shimmering smiles, I could not be bothered to care.

I lay awake at night, marveling over this power you had over me. How you so thoroughly distracted me from the life I’d meticulously constructed. Suddenly, every cautionary tale I’d been told about sirens made sense.

What rapture...to be dashed against the rocks by your leave.

\---

Every man, even one so disciplined as I, has his breaking point. I would have been much more disappointed in my own, had I not suspected it to be entirely by your design.

The Randall’s harvest ball...the parade of painted, perfumed, posturing peacocks vying for your favor with seeming spectacular success...it was enough to make my teeth itch. But one too many knowing glances my way betrayed your game. As did the covert caress of deliberate digits over mine. The idea that it could all be for my own benefit, that even your feigned attentions to these other men had nothing to do with them but was instead a performance for my viewing...it should not have thrilled me.

But it did. And as you led me away from the sea of scraping sycophants, I knew I would be helpless against whatever new temptation you sought to offer me. How could I ever have been prepared enough to resist? What bulwarks could have stood against you? 

I strode through the pooled shadow to take communion from your parted lips. A desperate supplicant. A man condemned. You tasted of wine and warmth and summer nights spent beneath the stars. There was a freedom in the sacrament of your kiss, a profound solace in the way you melted against me. 

You were divine. Celestially singular in your beauty.

And the memory of your breathless submission haunted my dreams ever after.

\---

My return from duty saw you cooled to me in the most vexing of ways. You refused to see me: disappearing out back doors and down stairwells just as I’d arrive, fully within my line of sight. At first, I tried to convince myself such a dismissal was for the best, that I’d be better off reverting to my former life.

But all attempts at persuasion proved impossible. By then you too thoroughly owned me to simply let go. If I was to wither and die without your light, I would at least know why.

I ambushed you in your own home, the flare of righteous fury in your eyes galling me, heating my blood. As did your obvious jealousy, though for different reasons. You asked me to wait. And I did. Of course I did. The hope blooming in my chest would have rooted me to the spot regardless.

You granted me permission to call you by your name...but I could not permit myself such blasphemy. A name denotes possession, and I would lay no claim over that which is not mine, at least no more than the dusky purple marks that littered your collarbone.

You encouraged me to roughness. And, though I was no stranger to such things, your involvement made all the difference. The draw was deeper, the stakes higher. But you were always so generous, allowing me to worship at the altar of your body. I offered up countless prayers and praises, supped on the cries of euphoria that tumbled from your lips, sipped the salt of your sweat from your skin. And still you wanted more. _More. Please, James._

But I could go no further. No matter how I wished to. 

I knew you must enjoy my company. I knew you must savor my touch. But it was the most treacherous of questions that besieged my heart, hounded my sleep…

Could you _love_ me?

\---

‘It makes me proud to call you mine.’

_Yours. Yours. Yours._

The words marked a change in you. A shifting behind your eyes, like you were seeing me for the first time.

It taught me to hope.

As did your interest in the aspects of my life that were not discovered in dark corners, drenched in desire. You craved adventure, yearned for the sea. How could I be anything but delighted to learn that was something we shared? A connection made pure by the light of day.

Your were thirsty for my stories and understanding, delving with dreamy inquiries into my past. Such a breach would have disturbed me in anyone else. But you. _You._ There was no trifling tidbit too small, no detail too trivial to avoid your study. And I coveted it. I coveted your closeness. As I have with no other.

And then. The book. Shakespeare.

How could you have known? Was it intuition or subterfuge that led you to the single most thoughtful gift anyone has given me? Ultimately, it didn’t matter, for the result was the same. You had sealed my fate with the gesture.

 _Yours._ Forever and ever. 

Amen.

\---

You prefer champagne to brandy and brandy to claret. You keep a bundle of abandoned needlepoints in a basket in your drawing room, ever claiming an intent to one-day finish them while the twinkle in your eye says otherwise. You have a tendency to leave half-read volumes in your wake, stuffed with improvised bookmarks to save your place, ranging from scraps of parchment to feather quills to dried daisies. You do not care for public displays of wealth or opulence for their own sake, cannot resist the call of the sun, heedless of the way it raises freckles on your skin, and always seem to have some manner of sweets hidden away in your pockets.

And you sing. Ever humming to yourself, softly crooning the lyrics to this hymn or that ballad as you go about your daily routine. These inadvertent concerts are made all the more dear by their lack of preamble. It is no secret you like to perform for an audience, but it is the quiet moments, your voice dancing effortlessly over the notes…

 _Beloved,_ I would think as I tucked yet another sketch away for you to find.

And you are.

\---

The ceremony. My promotion. I saw you in the crowd, stunning to behold, pride in your eyes. You can never know what it does to me, your ownership. What it means.

I escaped the Admiral as soon as I could, keen to be at your side, only to have panic seize me as you swayed toward the open air. Something was wrong, and, despite your declarations to the contrary, I could not release my hold, too afraid you might topple from the precipice. Humor. Sarcasm. That is what you react to. I hid my concern behind a veneer of wit. But not well enough.

The dress. A task. A goal. A means to end your suffering. Nothing more…nothing more...

But then you are free, chest heaving, flushed and trembling beneath my hovering hands. And I want. _I want._ To touch you. To exalt you. To devour you.

I do not.

Not until-

‘I love you, James.’

‘Thank God.’

I have never experienced such confounding relief, such marrow deep elation. It feels like salvation. And I am drunk on it. Your confession has freed me. 

And more confessions follow, whispered in my ear as your wandering hands brand my flesh, divest me of my clothes, tangle in my hair.

 _I love you._ Anything. Anything you want from me. _I love you._ Yours. I am yours. _Iloveyou._

\---

‘What a coincidence. I was planning to say yes.’

There is such contentment in your tone, such satisfaction in your gaze, I cannot help but kiss you. Long and lazy and sweet. When we part for need of breath, I pull out of your grasp, dipping to search for my frock in the strewn garments scattered across the floor. Finding it, I dig through the breast pocket, produce the golden band I had sent to my mother for.

‘I’m yours, Elizabeth. I have been since the moment I met you. I love you. And I want nothing more than to tell you so every day for the rest of my life.’

Your dark eyes sparkle, offset by the burnished halo of your messy curls. My fingers shake as you let me slide the ring onto your own, lips curling as you purr, ‘I think that could be arranged.’

‘Good,’ I say, all other words having fled to make room for the overwhelming joy you bring me. But it is not enough, so I hunt for one more. ‘Excellent.’

You place your bejeweled hand against my cheek, brush a chaste kiss across my chin. A benediction. Then your gaze fixes on something behind me, and mischief laces your voice once more.

‘Now, then. I recall you mentioning something about the desk?’

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I only ever intended this to be a three part story, but then James kicked down my door and demanded his side also be told. Who was I to refuse?
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you to everyone who has read, left comments and kudos, and reached out to me elsewhere. I do ever so love hearing from you.
> 
> And now! Time to pull the next project from Ye Olde Basket of AUs!  
> Until then, dear readers!~


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